


The Ghost Of You

by snailthesaints



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - The Ghost Of You Video, Angst, Death, Drabble, M/M, Mild Gore, World War II, i basically watched it earlier to trigger myself then wrote this, i literally hate that so much, i swear its mediocre read it, i've only ever watched it 3 times, im good at writing from the pov of someone losing it, it makes me so uncomfortable, not ww1, tgoy is set ww2 right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snailthesaints/pseuds/snailthesaints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never coming home?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost Of You

**Author's Note:**

> fyi this is franks pov ik i hate first person too but i use 40s slang to make it sound a bit less shit
> 
> also its unbetaed barely proofread and written at 4am

It was June 1944.

Now, Gerard Way was a flaming homosexual, I, less so. However, I was certainly _active duty_ and to say I didn't have my _urges_ would be a lie.

We touched in a way two men should never, and the vigor of our ‘comradely’ hugs reached a depth of one’s soul one rarely ventures into.

At that ball, I watched him perform from behind my strings, the damned couples waltzing below us.

We were of the same mind that we were inseparable, we quipped we were _both_ the army wives. No body of water came between us and with our fingers interlocked when the shells rained down, they’d take the both of us, if that be our fate.

‘Home is where the heart is’ people always liked to say. My heart was always with Gerard, his heart was always with me, and so, we had the sick comfort that of all the men in the room, we were the only pair certain to come home.

I watched his fingers clutch the silver microphone, his black hair slicked back and his ivory skin contrasting against the vermilion drapes behind us.

We played a slow tune.

It was last on our set, we had to head to our bunks quick sharp after, lights out 10pm before we set off the next morning.

I should’ve hurt more as we left. I should’ve clutched my beer with whiter knuckles.

But I had everything I needed.

 

Mikey and Gerard were close.

They spend that last night comforting one another, as if the pair were simply fearing the bogeyman under their bed.

I feared Gerard and I wouldn't be back on these shores again, Mikey left an only child. He would struggle without his brother.

Ray Toro couldn't spin tales of adventure and fantasy from a damp bunk like Gerard could. Nor could he give hugs like Gerard could.

Nor could he, or anyone for that matter, smile, draw and love like Gerard could.

 

It felt like barely moment we spent on the boat. But, oh, how it dragged nonetheless.

Gerard sat in front of me. We focused on the enemy.

We ran when it came time. The shells dropped and our ears rang. I held his arm tight.

We ducked. We shot. We ran.

He screamed.

We continued running.

I held his arm tight.

We ducked.

I looked round.

Ray ran towards us.

Gerard screamed.

Mikey lay in the sand.

Ray clutched bloodied bandages.

Gerard tried to scramble free.

I held him tight.

Mikey lay in the sand.

Gerard cried his brothers name, eyes dark, panicked, disbelieving, black lashes fluttering against his grubby skin, as if he could blink it all away.

Someone needed to save Mikey.

He cried it a thousand times.

The shells continued dropping. The sand burnt our skin. The stench of blood invaded our nostrils.

He tried to scramble free.

Someone needed to save Mikey.

I held him tighter, my knee on his back, pinning him down; Mikey was gone.

Our ears rang.

He continued screaming, continued thrashing, continued yelling his brothers name.

I looked over at the broken spectacles in the sand. Mikey was gone.

The shells continued dropping.

We ran.

I held him tight.

 

It was bittersweet when we made it back to home shores.

It was bittersweet when the war ended.

It was bittersweet when couples reunited.

I should’ve held him tighter.

He ran. Not back onto the beach, out of state actually.

I sent telegrams.

I received therapy.

I should’ve held him tighter.

We clutched our beer with white knuckles.

Mikey lay in the sand.

Gerard never did come home.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @terrorofkncwing tumblr dont---try


End file.
